WALKING OUT

That afternoon, I sat in my cubicle staring at the resignation letter I'd already submitted that morning. Cold coffee, empty screen, the cursor blinking where my access codes used to work. After the presentation disaster... there was no going back.

Fifteen years with this company...

Every keystroke felt heavy. Like I was marking time—all those late nights debugging code, lunch breaks spent eating cold noodles at my desk, meetings that ran until 3 AM with everyone looking dead inside.

My phone buzzed. Video call from Minh Anh.

"How are you holding up?" she asked when she saw my face.

"I did it. Submitted the resignation this morning, after..." 

I couldn't finish the sentence about the presentation.

Her hair was pulled back, a few strands loose around her face. 

She looked concerned but not surprised.

"I'm not sure about anything," I said, glancing out the window at the city lights starting to flicker on. "But every morning I wake up with this... weight. Like someone dropped a boulder on my chest while I was sleeping."

She didn't say anything, just watched me through the screen.

"Every day walking into this office," I continued, "twelve steps from the elevator to my desk. And with each step, my shoulders get tighter, my voice gets smaller. Like I'm shrinking."

I took a breath. "I keep telling myself it's just work stress, or perfectionism, or whatever. But really? I'm just scared. And that fear is running my entire life."

"You know what I mean?" I looked back at her. "I don't want money or promotions. I just want to feel like myself again."

Minh Anh was quiet for a long time. Then she smiled—not a big smile, just understanding.

The call ended. The office got quiet except for the wall clock ticking.

I looked around my cubicle. Coffee stains on the desk. Post-it notes everywhere—blue for meetings, yellow for deadlines, pink for urgent tasks. A whole life reduced to colored squares.

There was a note stuck to my monitor: "Project Elip - URGENT." My handwriting.

I signed the resignation letter. Weird thing was, I didn't feel scared. Just... relieved.

Printed it out, sealed it in an envelope. For the first time in years, I could breathe all the way down to my lungs.

I grabbed my old denim jacket from the back of my chair. My computer was already locked—IT had disabled my access after I submitted the papers.

No checking email one last time. No saving final files. 

Nothing left to save.

I walked out.

For the first time in years, I could breathe all the way 

down to my lungs.

---

Instead of going home, I found myself walking toward Cat Club.

My feet just... went there. Like they knew something my brain didn't.

I stood outside for a while, looking through the familiar gray windows. The same neon sign I'd seen a hundred times, flickering even in daylight. The same sounds I'd been missing—music, balls clicking, people laughing. Real laughter, not the fake office kind.

How long had it been since I'd been here? Three months? Four? Back when I still had time for things that mattered, before Project Elip consumed my life. Before I convinced myself that pool halls were a waste of time and I needed to "focus on my career."

What a joke that turned out to be.

I remembered the last time I was here. Rushing out after just one game because I had an "urgent" deadline. Some code that probably got scrapped anyway. I'd told myself I'd come back next week, then next month, then... never.

I'd walked past this place so many times since then, slowing down to listen to the sounds inside. Always hurrying past, always finding excuses. Important meetings. Critical projects. The endless hamster wheel of corporate urgency.

Today felt different. Today I had nothing to rush back to.

My hand touched the door handle—cold metal, worn smooth by thousands of hands like mine. People who'd chosen to be here instead of somewhere they had to be.

I pushed the door open.

The warmth hit me immediately. Warm lights casting everything in gold, the same old leather chairs that had seen countless games and conversations. Chalk dust in the air that I'd somehow forgotten I missed. Music from speakers in the ceiling, just loud enough to fill the comfortable spaces between words.

A few regulars looked up and nodded—faces I recognized but had never really talked to. The kind of acknowledgment you get in places where showing up is enough.

I walked to the rack of cues, ran my fingers along the familiar wood grain. Picked up the same weight I used to prefer—heavier than necessary, but it felt honest in my hands. Like something real in a world that had felt increasingly fake.

"Welcome back," I said quietly to myself.